Crash And Burn
by onli
Summary: Two people die in a car crash. Three other people disappear after the accident. Scotland Yard are out of their depth again but there are things that Sherlock Holmes is uncertain about too... Mystery with some slash, or slash with some mystery.
1. The Case

**A/N:** So, a new story! A little bit of plot there this time, hope you like it...

* * *

"It was an accident, case closed." Sherlock dropped the file on the desk and looked at Detective Inspector Lestrade who was sitting behind his desk, opposite Sherlock. His grey eyes studied the older man and he tilted his head slightly. "Or was it?"

Lestrade leant back and sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. "Officially, yes, but… It just doesn't seem like an accident. Those people that went missing..."

"You need me to find out what really happened?" Sherlock asked, emphasising the word 'need' with a smug smile on his face.

Lestrade rolled his eyes but nodded. "That's right." He picked up another file and handed it over to Sherlock. "Here's _all_ the information we've got so far. More detailed, less official. I'd, um, appreciate it if you kept that to yourself. And, well, John of course. I guess that can't be avoided."

Sherlock nodded slightly as took the file, a small smile curving his lips for a second or two. His eyes studied the file curiously for a moment, then he stood up. "I'll look into it." Waving his hand much more cheerfully than would have been decent – with two people dead and three missing – the detective walked out of Lestrade's office and out to the street where he got himself a taxi and drove back to Baker Street. He could feel the excitement flooding in his veins.

* * *

John came home fifteen minutes after his flatmate who was already almost invisible behind a pile of books and papers.

"So, a new case?" John enquired, putting a few books aside so he could see Sherlock. He frowned a bit as he recognised the look on the detective's face. It was the look that told John his flatmate wouldn't be eating or sleeping until the case was solved, and that John himself wasn't very likely to get sleep or food either, as the detective usually wanted to have him by his side. He didn't mind it, of course. Going to work after being awake for 48 hours wasn't nice, but being awake with Sherlock was, indeed, nice.

"Can I have a look?" The doctor spotted an important looking document on the table and reached for it. Sherlock nodded absently, his long fingers typing quickly on John's laptop. John decided to ignore Sherlock "borrowing" his stuff again – complaining about it didn't seem to help – and he took the paper which seemed to be the summary of the case.

A car crash, two cars involved. Impossible to say which one caused the accident, it had been dark and the road had been slippery. The driver of car A – a woman in her 30's – died immediately; the passenger in the car survived without serious damage. The driver of car B wasn't injured either but his passengers weren't that lucky – one of them died later in the hospital, her brain virtually smashed out, and the other broke an arm and was taken to the hospital too. Then she disappeared. As did the driver of car B, and the passenger in car A. They were supposed to arrive at a police station the next day but none of them showed up, and when the officers went to their homes they found them deserted, with no signs of the residents leaving in a hurry, or indeed signs of them leaving at all. The woman with the broken arm – Marie something, 29 years old – and the driver – Peter something something, 40 years old – were last seen in the hospital at around 10 pm the night after the accident. The passenger from car A – a woman called Linda – had taken a taxi from the scene of accident at 7:15 pm and no one had seen her since.

"What do you think?"

John looked up from the paper. Sherlock was watching him, head tipped to the side and eyes roaming over his face. John blinked, momentarily confused. "About what?"

Sherlock huffed. "About the case." _Obviously_, his tone added.

"Oh. Well, um, seems a bit complicated to me."

"If it wasn't complicated I wouldn't have taken the case."

"Yes, of course."

"So?"

"What? You can't expect me to solve this in five minutes."

"I don't. But I want your opinion."

John sighed. Sherlock loved doing this – telling him to deduce something and then proving he was wrong about everything. John absolutely hated it but Sherlock had a special "please?" smile and every time John found himself unable to say no. So, with a heavy sigh, he played along.

"Okay. So there's something suspicious about this accident, right? The people who disappeared didn't just go on a surprise holiday in the Caribbean or something?"

Sherlock nodded encouragingly, which only made John more nervous.

"Well, one driver died and the other one didn't, so I'd say the survivor must have something to do with this? And..." John paused, trying to think like Sherlock. That was obviously never going to happen but you could always hope... "The surviving driver _intended_ to crash into the other car? Because of some old grudge? Maybe she left him?"

John stopped, knowing he had only said what was obvious, not helping with the investigation at all. He looked at Sherlock, who was staring out of the window.

"Are you even listening to me?"

Sherlock looked up and John tried to hide the disappointment in his face. Useless, of course: Sherlock's expression told him the detective hadn't missed a single twitch on his face. "I am, John. You did well."

"No I didn't. You don't have to protect me, Sherlock. I know I always miss everything important and I'm fine with it. "

"I'm not protecting you. You're right, you didn't really discover anything revolutionary but it does not matter."

John huffed. "Yeah, right."

"Really, John. If I wanted everything to be brilliant and groundbreaking I'd work alone, but I don't because I like working with you." He seemed a bit surprised by his own words and quickly returned to studying the mountain of papers surrounding him. John felt just as surprised but couldn't help a small smile rising to his face. "I, um... Thank you."

Sherlock made a little, frustrated noise and waved his hand. The time for emotions and other human things was obviously over now. John put the paper he'd been holding back to the table. "Well, I'll make some dinner – you don't have to eat but I'm starving – and then I'm all yours."

Sherlock looked up at him, one eyebrow raised in what John felt was a suggestive manner.

"Meaning that I'll help you with the case if you need it," John corrected, escaping to the kitchen.

* * *

**A/N:** It's a bit short but the next chapter will be longer... If you're kind enough to review this!


	2. More Data

**A/N:** I've spent some very creative time at the doctor's lately so this chapter is a bit longer (even though no one reviewed the previous chapter *cries*) Enjoy!

* * *

The next day John was woken up by a loud slamming of his bedroom door. He almost jumped off the bed, his inner soldier immediately taking over and ready to fight for his life before he even woke up properly. When his brain registered the attacker's identity he decided not to fight, but as the shock faded, he felt sleepy anger grow in his chest.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?"

"You don't have work today, do you?" The detective's eyes shined in the grey morning light and he started pacing restlessly in the small room, his tall figure filling the space. The game was on, apparently.

"No," John grumbled, grabbing his mobile phone and peering at the screen. "But it's 6 am on a Saturday morning so I'm most definitely not getting out of bed yet." He pulled the cover up to his chin and glared at his flatmate.

Seconds later, he was sitting on the bed, another "What the hell are you doing?" ready to be spat out as Sherlock bounced towards the door with John's blanket in his hands – the doctor's sleepy brain couldn't quite understand how he'd managed to steal it. The room felt cold without the soft, warm cover and John wished he'd worn more than just his underwear.

"Give it back?" he tried half-heartedly, knowing it was useless before he even finished his sentence.

"No. I want to work with you," Sherlock reminded before closing the door – and taking the blanket with him.

John let out a deep, deep sigh. For a moment he regretted not believing all those people who had told him to stay away from Sherlock. Living with him really was hellish sometimes... But there were reasons why John Watson didn't want to live anywhere else. As he headed for the bathroom – only to find the bathtub filled with something that looked alarmingly like human blood – he wished he remembered what exactly those reasons were.

* * *

15 minutes later he was downstairs, sitting at the kitchen table and trying to eat breakfast while Sherlock busied around the table, explaining vaguely some ideas he'd got last night – they just seemed to get more and more bizarre all the time. After "the murderer might be the one who purchased the African giraffe" John decided not to even try to understand what was going on.

"I suppose you didn't sleep at all last night," John yawned.

"Wasn't tired," Sherlock said absently. "Now, I need you to go visit this Peter's house and find out everything you can about the connections between him and the people in the other car."

John yawned again. "Sorry. Peter?"

"Yes, Peter. The driver that didn't die. Car B, as someone so smartly named it. He's now been missing for several days and I'd like to find him."

"Oh. Of course."

"He lives with a..." Sherlock reached for a printout on the table, "...guy called Simon. Here's the address."

John studied the paper. "Simon? So, is he gay?"

"You live with a Sherlock. Are you gay?"

"No, of course not," John glared at him over his tea mug, "I just thought- No."

"Don't jump to conclusions before you have enough data to do so, John. Go talk to Mr Davis."

"It's still Saturday morning and it's still too damn early for a visit like that."

Sherlock frowned. "Is it?"

"Yes. Yes, it is, can I go back to bed now?"

"No." The detective's tone was distant and indifferent but the firm demand was still audible under it. "You can sit here so that I can talk to you. Mrs Hudson took my skull and I haven't had the time to get it back yet."

John felt absolutely ridiculous, sitting there as a substitute for a skull, brain foggy with sleep deprivation, listening to the world's only consulting detective go on and on about motives, alibis, accidents and murders. But at the same time it felt strangely comfortable, it felt like home. The bleak morning light was slowly turning yellow and the city around them woke up to a lazy Saturday morning. And John loved Sherlock when he was on a case. Not in a gay way, he just adored Sherlock so much it couldn't really be classified as something as lame as "liking". He loved seeing the thrill in Sherlock's eyes, loved the man's energy and the way he was so completely focused on the challenge. Loved being around him. John knew that there were loads of people who thought Sherlock was a completely cold and emotionless psychopath because he enjoyed solving murder cases. But after following the detective for months, being closer to him than probably anyone ever had, John had seen the passionate side of the man, the desperate side, and the caring side. The side that was far from cold and emotionless – even though Sherlock himself wasn't ready to admit it and, to be honest, John didn't even want him to. He didn't need to talk about feelings with Sherlock, it was enough for him to know those feelings were there, buried deep in his flatmate. John drank his tea and felt the caffeine gradually revitalise him.

* * *

It was almost 9:30 when John finally decided it would be okay to go visit the mysterious Simon. Sherlock didn't really care about what was "okay" and what wasn't but since it seemed to be important to John, Sherlock tried to live with it. Sometimes it was even useful – people were more willing to cooperate when they were treated in a way that John called "appropriate". It meant not invading their homes in the middle of the night, not making irrelevant, rude observations about their secret lovers and generally not treating them impolitely. Sherlock wasn't a huge fan of respecting idiots or being polite to them but John was a patient teacher, which was why he was increasingly welcome to accompany Sherlock wherever he went.

Sherlock listened as John's steps descended the stairs – soft and steady, with absolutely no limp – and the front door opened and closed. Silence flooded into the flat as the detective sat still in his armchair, calculating, contemplating. After a few minutes he suddenly jumped to his feet, grabbing his phone and rushing down the stairs. He pulled his coat on and wrapped the blue scarf around his neck as he ran out to the street and hailed a taxi. Time for some legwork.

* * *

The black cab pulled up in front of an ordinary looking house in Covent Garden. The flat of Linda, the missing woman who had survived from the crash when the driver of the car had turned into a mess of guts and broken bones and a pool of blood on the driver's seat. Scotland Yard had already been here, of course, but Sherlock hoped the so-called professionals hadn't messed up all the evidence so that he could still find something that'd help him solve the case. Unfortunately, he hadn't managed to get a search warrant ("There's nothing to be seen there, we've already searched the whole flat") so he would have to put some effort into this...

Sherlock looked at the front door; there was no way he was getting in this way without drawing some unwanted attention to himself. Lestrade wouldn't be too pleased if his men found their favourite psychopath breaking in to a victim's house when he'd been strictly told _not_ to come here. The detective sneaked around the building, looking for a back door. Ah, there was one. Much better. Kneeling in front of the door on a dark and narrow back street, he pulled out a set of lock picks and started working on the door. It didn't take too long before he heard a snap as the lock gave in and the door creaked open. Sherlock stepped in, every nerve of his body tense and alert – he had learnt something from the little unfortunate incident during the case which John had called 'The Blind Banker'. He certainly didn't want to get strangled by a random Chinese assassin, especially now that no one knew he was here. It would affect the investigation in a way that wasn't acceptable.

The house seemed to be empty, though. It was messy and smelled unclean but it looked like no one had been there after the Yard. Slight dust was covering every surface and the smell of food slowly beginning to rot flowed from the kitchen. The police had been careful, Sherlock noted, they had left almost no marks of their visit. He took out his magnifier and started scanning the flat, inch by inch.

* * *

John came home slightly after midday and found the flat empty. He considered going back to bed now that Sherlock wasn't here to steal his things and demand him to get up, but he didn't really feel tired anymore so he just sat in the living room watching TV. He tried texting Sherlock but the man didn't answer, he thought about calling Sarah and asking her out but then remembered dating was one of the things he simply couldn't do when they were working on a case. He didn't want to end up having a date with Sarah _and_ Sherlock, or, even worse, only Sherlock – that had happened too. John shivered and concentrated on the television.

Sherlock didn't return until evening, when the darkness was already filling the flat and lights on the street were turning on. He found John curled up in the corner of the sofa, updating his blog. The bluish light from the screen was illuminating the man's face as he stared intently at the text he was working on. It looked cosy and familiar, it looked like home. Sherlock frowned at the weird thought and sat down next to his flatmate. John closed the laptop, even though his blog entry wasn't finished yet. For some reason it made Sherlock feel important.

"Did you have a nice day?" John asked, turning to the detective. Sherlock noted the weary look on his face; he usually looked like that when he'd spent too much time indoors.

"You shouldn't have stayed home all day. It's not good for you."

John looked surprised for a second or two, then seemed to give up. "I know. But I did have a nice little chat with that Simon. And he _is_ gay, so for once I was actually right about something."

"Oh. Too bad that wasn't really what you went there for."

"He's been together with Peter for almost eight years, they have a very neat flat in South Kensington and they seem to be very happy together. Well, they were, before Peter went missing. Simon was absolutely wretched and pretty much begged me to find his, uh, husband."

"Did he have pictures of them together?"

John sighed. "God, yes. He dragged out tons of albums and I didn't know how to delicately tell him I just wanted to see one picture to make sure they actually were together. So I sat through a presentation about everything they've done in the past five years. At the very least."

Sherlock grinned. "Well done. What else?"

John pulled out a notebook and reeled off a praiseworthy amount of details. The couple seemed to be quite rich and very much in love, they had decent friends and decent jobs. There didn't seem to be any reasons why someone would want to crash Peter's car and then kidnap him. As had been the case with Linda – her flat wasn't exactly what you'd call a model home but there wasn't anything that would have screamed "suspicious", either. John expected Sherlock to start displaying the usual signs of frustration but the man seemed quite content. He leant back and started texting with his phone.

"I told Lestrade we're getting on very nicely," Sherlock said, hitting 'Send' and dropping the phone. John raised an eyebrow.

"We've found nothing. I don't think we're any closer to solving the case."

Sherlock gave him a big, bright, predatory smile. "Yes we are."

* * *

**A/N:** I'm not asking for reviews this time but I'd love to hear your opinions on this: Should I concentrate on the mystery or the non-case stuff (slash, that is)? Action or emotions? Because I've realised I can't have them both at the centre of attention...


	3. Break Up

**A/N:** Huge thanks for the reviews and opinions! I hope you all had a nice New Year.

* * *

Sherlock stared blankly at the tv screen with an untouched takeaway meal on his lap. Lights from the screen flashed over his features as he sat still in his armchair, looking more like a statue than a real man. John had tried to get his mind off the case, just for an hour or so, but that plan had obviously failed. John yawned.

Sherlock's head turned immediately and he studied John's face. "You need to sleep? Again?" His tone was almost accusing; John rolled his eyes.

"Yes, well, I'm human. I need sleep and food and other boring, human things. So sorry. Oh, and I want my blanket back."

Sherlock looked displeased but seemed to decide John was more useful when he'd slept for some hours. Reluctantly, he gave John the blanket – it had been hidden under the sofa and was now covered in dust and dirt and other things John didn't even want to classify – and permission to go to bed. "I'll wake you up early, though."

John mumbled something about the consequences of sleep deprivation and went upstairs, hugging his dear blanket to his chest.

Sherlock sat in his armchair a long time. He thought about the case; he was very happy with the progress they had made so far. John really was irreplaceable – he'd done good job with that Simon guy and Sherlock felt confident he now had all the data he needed to solve the case. Marie – the third missing person – wasn't very interesting and he'd got all important information from Lestrade's file. The woman lived in a miserable little house on the northern outskirts of London and worked as a secretary in the same hi-tech company as Peter. High technology, low salaries. They were friends, also outside their work, and often went out together for lunch etc. Nothing suspicious about that. They'd been returning from another friend's party when the other car hit them – officially it wasn't like that, of course, but it was likely that car A had been the cause of the crash. It had hit the side of car B, so if it wasn't an accident it was virtually impossible that car B had caused the wreck.  
The woman who died in Peter's car – Laura, not that the name really mattered now that she was dead – was working in the same company but Sherlock hadn't paid much attention to her, or the other dead woman. If they were important, no one would have bothered to kidnap the ones that survived. Molly Hooper was surely giving the corpses all the attention they needed.

Sherlock's mind began to wonder, away from the case and towards the bedroom upstairs. He listened – nothing. John must be asleep... Sherlock wished he hadn't let John go to bed. He didn't really need him right now; he needed to think and even though John wasn't exactly stupid, he wasn't very bright either so having his brain here wouldn't be a significant improvement. Yet he felt it would have been nicer to sit here if John was here too, in his armchair or on the sofa, making stupid questions and saying "brilliant". Sherlock shook his head and tried to concentrate on the case but a soft thump from upstairs made him wonder if John had fallen out of his bed or if he was coming back to the living room.

It had been bothering him ever since he first saw the man and knew, he just knew he wanted to have that army doctor in Baker Street with him. It was strange, very strange, how no one else had ever been what John now was to Sherlock, and he highly doubted anyone else would ever be. John was irreplaceable as a colleague, of course, but there was so much more than that. Surely, a colleague wouldn't repeatedly risk his life just to save Sherlock's. No, John was a friend – something Sherlock hadn't had before, something he generally wasn't interested in having but was now actually happy to have. Sherlock liked introducing him to people as his friend. It made him proud in a way nothing had ever made him proud before. He didn't quite understand it and that was hugely irritating but at the same time he knew he was probably happier now than he'd ever been. It wasn't like he'd been lonely before or anything like that – he simply hadn't needed friends or other people around him, he'd been happy alone. But somehow John had sneaked into his life and become almost a part of Sherlock, a part that made him feel content and complete. It was strange, much more puzzling than this car crash investigation or any other case he'd been working on in a long, long time. Sherlock was determined to solve this John mystery.

He spent the night pacing around the flat, occasionally sitting down for a moment and then pacing again. He had pinned pictures from the crime scene to the walls – Mrs Hudson didn't like it but she had agreed that pin holes in the wall were better than bullet holes – and he stared at the photographs. The front half of car A was completely crushed, as if it'd been made of paper. The passenger – Linda – had been lucky; she'd been on the backseat and the airbags had protected her well. Sherlock had had some interesting pictures of what was left of the driver of car A but Mrs Hudson had almost fainted after seeing them so he had taken them down. Seriously, the woman should stop sneaking in to the flat. It wasn't Sherlock's fault if his job was too much for her nerves. He frowned and moved on to the pictures of the other car. Car A had crashed to the left side of it and the front passenger's seat didn't look too nice – luckily enough, no one had been sitting on it. Laura, placed in the left side but on the back seat, had been pretty much in one piece when the ambulance arrived but her skull had come into unfortunate contact with the bonnet of car A and she hadn't survived for long. Marie had broken an arm, supposedly when Laura fell against her, but Peter had been practically uninjured.

A scheme started to form in Sherlock's mind. There were things he was already certain about, dots he had joined, but some questions still remained unanswered. Where were Linda, Peter and Marie now? Sherlock ran his fingers through his messy hair and stared at the wall. Where could they be? It would be nice to find them while they were still alive; interrogating them might produce some important and interesting data.

Sherlock allowed himself a little nap on the sofa at 4 am. After all, there wasn't much he could do at the moment and it was probably too early to wake John up. He didn't want to upset John. Also, there was an experiment he wanted to carry out with John and the man would be more willing to cooperate if he wasn't dragged out of bed this early.

* * *

John set his alarm to 6 am just to make sure he wouldn't have to deal with Sherlock's extraordinary "how to wake up your flatmate" methods. Five hours of sleep wasn't enough but John was a trained soldier so that wasn't really the problem. The problem was the fact he had to wake up at six on a Sunday morning just because his flatmate wanted him to be his assistant.

John felt a bit grumpy as he crawled out of bed to have a shower. Sherlock probably didn't care whether his assistant showered or not but John still felt better after some freshening up. He headed downstairs, straightening his jumper and ruffling his damp hair to dry it as he went.

Sherlock was pacing around the living room. His curly hair was a mess and he had dark shadows under his eyes – apparently there was still work to do.

"Morning," John yawned on his way to kitchen. If he was going to be awake this early on a Sunday morning he definitely wanted to drink tea before doing anything else.

Sherlock stopped pacing and gave him a slightly unnerving smile. "Good morning, John."

"Breakfast?" John offered, waving the kettle.

"No, nothing for me."

Well, it was worth the try. If Sherlock starved to death it wouldn't be John's fault. The doctor turned the kettle on and opened the fridge. It was empty – if you didn't count the bottles and cans Sherlock had brought from the morgue and John certainly didn't. He closed the door. Just tea, then. Tea was fine.

With the mug in his hand John turned to Sherlock.

"What's the plan for today?"

"We have to pay closer attention to Peter. There must be something I've missed. Linda will be next."

"So... Are you – or we, whatever – going to investigate the dead people at all?"

Sherlock looked very uninterested. "No, I don't think we are. They're dead, they're boring."

"I thought dealing with dead people was your job," John muttered.

"Correct, but this time I'm lucky enough to have victims that might still be alive. That's much more interesting. When they're dead, they just lie in the fridge at the morgue. When they're alive, anything can happen."

John looked a bit like this was one of the "not good" things. He dumped his mug on the coffee table with a disapproving clank.

"You care too much," Sherlock sighed. "Stop it."

"You'd be dead if I didn't care about you."

That was true, of course. Sherlock felt a sudden burst of something that was almost like gratitude or... Affection, even. Could it be? He gave John a small smile. Maybe now would be a good time for the experiment?

"John?"

The smaller man looked at him. "Yes?"

"I want to try something."

John shrugged. "As long as it doesn't include heads in the fridge I'm fine with it."

A wide grin crossed Sherlock's face; he had loved John's reaction to the head. "No body parts in the fridge," he promised, slowly approaching John who was standing in the middle of the room, looking expectantly at him. He felt nervous. What if the experiment didn't work out? Most people were predictable but John wasn't. It was wonderful – having someone who could actually surprise you from time to time – but sometimes it made things difficult.

Sherlock stepped forward until he was less than an arm's length from John and put his hands on the smaller man's shoulders, and then took another step. Their chests were almost touching and he could feel John's breath, quick and shallow, and hear his steady heart throbbing. Sherlock slid his hands down, gripping John's upper arms.

"Sherlock, what-" The detective felt John squirm, trying to get his arms free, trying to pull away, but Sherlock didn't let him. John was warm and smelled good – shampoo, soap, deodorant, Earl Grey.

"An experiment," Sherlock declared, looking at John's eyes that were wide and suspicious, his lips that were slightly parted, ready to ask another question.

"Shut up," Sherlock murmured. He leant closer, his nose delicately brushing John's forehead.

The contact seemed to be too much – John slammed his palms over Sherlock's chest and pulled away, this time breaking the taller man's hold. Sherlock blinked. John was backing away from him, anger and confusion radiating from every inch of his body. Not good.

John seemed to tremble as he stood there in the doorway, breathing heavily and staring at Sherlock.

"John, I – "

John raised his hand and Sherlock paused before he even realised it himself.

"No, I want you to shut up now and listen to me, Sherlock." John looked lost but there was military determinedness in his voice. And Sherlock listened. "I don't expect to understand what the hell you're doing but I... I know what I have to do now. What I should've done weeks ago, to be honest."

John paused, biting his lip and looking as if he was struggling with whatever he was going to say next. "John," Sherlock tried, taking a small step towards the other man but John immediately stepped backwards and shook his head. Sherlock stopped and let the doctor continue, thoughts swirling in his head. Clearly, the experiment hadn't gone too well. Why? What had gone wrong? And what was John going to say? It was something serious, something John didn't really want to say but knew he had to. Maybe this experiment had been a bad idea.

"Sherlock, I..." John's voice cracked. He stood still for a moment, looking down, gathering himself. "I'm sorry to do this now, when there's the case and all, but I need some time alone. I'll... I'll just go to Harry's for a couple of days to sort things out."

"Harry?" Sherlock frowned. There was no way John was going to leave Baker Street to go visit Harry. Why did he "need some time alone"?

John shrugged. "Well, okay, not Harry's place. I'll book a hotel or something. Please, Sherlock, you have to let me go."

He was pleading, begging Sherlock. The detective looked at him, confused and worried, even. "I don't understand, John."

"I don't expect you to. I'm so sorry, but I... There are things I need to think over. Alone."

This was beginning to sound like one of those stupid soap operas on the telly; the only difference was that in those shows the actors were horribly untalented, emotions fake, lines badly written. Now everything was real, John's anxiety heavy in the room and Sherlock's mind humming, empty and confused. A new thought occurred to him. "Are we... Breaking up?"

John shook his head disbelievingly, almost smiling, but it wasn't a happy smile. "What? No. We've never been _together_, Sherlock. We can't break up if we've never been together."

"But you're leaving me. It doesn't matter what you call it, you're leaving me."

"No, I just need some air. I..." John swallowed and his voice was small and sad. "So sorry."  
He turned around, took his jacket and walked towards the stairs. Sherlock stood alone in the middle of the living room and for once his brain seemed to be switched off.

"John?" was all he could manage.

John turned around but didn't look at him.

"Will you come back?"

John nodded, head half turned away from Sherlock. "Yes. Of course. Of course I will. This is my home."

With that, he walked down the stairs. Sherlock stood still for a long, long time.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm not so sure about this chapter, it wasn't going to be like this at all but then something happened and it turned out like this and I wasn't sure if I liked it or not. (Also, I haven't had the time to proofread it...) If there's anything that could be improved please let me know :)


	4. Escape

**A/N: **This site has been lagging lately and I've been very very busy, that's bad news for the story... Here's the next chapter anyway – it's now rated T but don't get your hopes up, haha. OH, and thanks for the reviews again! Love them.

* * *

John walked down Baker Street, turned to the right and continued on Marylebone Road. The direction didn't really matter to him. He walked and walked, just wanting to get away from 221B, get away from Sherlock. Unfortunately, his feet could get his body to the other side of the city but he couldn't stop his mind from wandering back... Meeting Sherlock for the first time at St. Bart's , his arrogance, the startling amount of knowledge; their fist case together and all the cases after that... And this morning, Sherlock suddenly so close to him, holding him, long, strong fingers wrapped tightly around his arms. John shivered; he wanted and at the same time didn't want to know what that had been about. But when Sherlock had refused to let him go, instead just pressing closer, John had made a decision he knew he should have made weeks ago. He needed time to think. Alone. It had hurt him to leave Sherlock like that, knowing that despite all his intellect, the detective wouldn't understand. Couldn't understand. Had there been other options, John would not have left without trying to explain, without giving any reason for his seemingly irrational behaviour, but how could he explain something he didn't really understand himself?

It was now obvious that he had moved in with Sherlock too soon. He didn't regret it, not at all, never had and never would, but everything had just happened too quickly. Before John had realised what he'd got himself into, he'd been standing next to a dead woman and his new flatmate had made clear John wasn't just going to help him pay the rent. Hell, he had even killed a man to protect Sherlock before their first week together was over. And things hadn't exactly slowed down.

After some weeks it had suddenly occurred to John how rapidly, how completely his life had changed after meeting Sherlock. Harry had called him, saying she was worried and asking if they could finally meet for a cup of coffee or something. She had sounded genuine, almost desperate actually – it'd been slightly after the pool incident and meeting Moriarty, maybe that had convinced her she really needed to meet his brother to check if he was OK. And John had decided to say yes, because he did feel a bit bad after neglecting and avoiding Harry for so long. Then Sherlock had rushed in, dramatically declaring they needed to go to Paris immediately.

John didn't meet Harry that weekend. Instead, he dashed around Paris, witnessed two people getting shot on the top floor of the Eiffel Tower, got in trouble with the local police and returned home exhausted and slightly off balance. Sherlock had seemed happy and, as usual, unaffected by it all. Harry hadn't called anymore.

After that, the uncomfortable consciousness had begun to grow. There were times when Sherlock seemed to steal not only his laptop and mobile phone but also all his time and all his energy, refusing to respect John's privacy, his wishes or even his safety. Sherlock made himself the centre of John's world and pushed everything and everyone else out. John didn't know if the detective was aware of it himself – probably not – but it really wasn't "all fine" anymore. He knew he had to do something but he wasn't sure how to explain the problem to someone who was so deeply uninterested in feelings and other human stuff like that, at least if they weren't related to some case he was working on. Today, something had finally snapped and John had broken free. He supposed he should be feeling happy now but all positive emotions were completely absent as he walked down the streets on that Sunday morning.

* * *

Sherlock stood still in the middle of the living room. He heard the front door close after John, briefly wondering if he should go after the doctor. He decided not to. So he just stood there. Minutes passed. Ten. Twenty. Half an hour. He sat down with a sigh.

Something had obviously gone wrong. It couldn't be only this experiment that had driven John away so abruptly, there had to be more, but he was quite sure the experiment had been one of the reasons and he almost felt bad about that. But he still didn't understand why John had been so upset. Usually the man didn't mind anything. He didn't mind body parts in the fridge (or elsewhere in the flat), he didn't mind being woken up in the middle of the night to hunt down criminals, he didn't mind Sherlock making up a fake identity and pretending to be sick and showing up at the surgery just because he was bored and wanted to see John. And he didn't mind the proximity. He didn't react negatively if Sherlock touched him – at first he had, but then he'd got used to it – sometimes it even seemed to comfort him. This time had been different, though. John had been so tense and cautious, which was very unlucky for the experiment.

Sherlock's gaze wandered to the wall which was still covered in photographs from the crime scene. He blinked. He had _forgotten_ about the case – only for a minute or so but it had still happened. His brain had focused on something else than the case. Usually he was fully able to process different kinds of information at the same time but there was no denying it: he had stopped thinking about the case. Sherlock felt astounded; another thing that didn't happen too often and wasn't very pleasant.

He needed to get on with the investigation. Scotland Yard could chase the murderer forever and they'd never find him without some consulting. John had promised to come back so he would, wouldn't he? Sherlock had more important things to do than finding John and begging him to come home. But on the other hand...

He sent a text to Mycroft.

_If John checks in to any hotel, let me know immediately.  
SH_

After all, Mycroft's obsession with spying on them both could be quite useful. His minions could stalk John and Sherlock could concentrate on the case.

Sherlock took a deep breath and forced his thoughts back to the investigation. The main question now was "Where are they?" and much to his annoyance Sherlock couldn't answer that one. Not yet. There were a couple of places he needed to visit and it would have been so much easier if John was here... Oh no, not John again. Sherlock shook his head violently. John wasn't important now. Peter was important, Linda was important. Even Marie might turn out to bear some significance in the case. There was something about these three, something he didn't know but he would have to find out in order to find them. He went through the files again, trying to find some details he'd missed earlier, looking for little things that didn't match. Nothing, nothing he hadn't already found. He paced around the flat – unfortunately his thoughts seemed to go around in circles, too.

Suddenly, his phone chimed with a received text message. Anthea texted him the address of a hotel near Paddington Station. Good. He needed John. Right now.

* * *

The lobby of the hotel was rather bleak. Grey and dirty beige were the main themes in the decoration - John really couldn't have chosen a more depressing accommodation. Sherlock was flirting with the receptionist. The girl was being unusually persistent but deep pink was already beginning to rise to her pale cheeks. Shouldn't take more than half a minute now...

"I'm very sorry, sir. He asked not to let anyone in."

Sherlock gave her a look that would have melted the whole North Pole.

"Room 306, sir."

* * *

John's mobile phone beeped. Reluctantly, he reached for it and read the message. Good God.

_I'm behind your door. Please open.  
SH_

John heard a soft knock from the door and groaned, burying his face in his hands. No, no, no. Of course he hadn't thought he could hide from Sherlock but he'd hoped the man would stay away if John asked him to. Apparently not. He typed a quick reply.

_Go away. I'm sorry but please just go. We'll talk later._

Sherlock's reply was quick.

_I'm breaking in, then. Your choice...  
SH_

John glanced at the window. This was the third floor and he really wasn't going to risk his life trying to climb down a clean wall. Plan C, then; sitting on the bed and staring at the door with a deer in the headlights look on his face. He recognised the sounds of Sherlock breaking in, the rustling noise, the way he fit the lock pick between the door and the frame – the detective would be in the room any second, demanding answers John couldn't give him.

* * *

The lock lost the battle and the door opened, letting Sherlock in. He stopped in the doorway, glancing quickly around the room. A standard, not-so-glamorous single hotel room with a small wardrobe, a small desk and a small bed. John was sitting on that bed, gazing at his shoes.

"Knowing you're a genius and all, I thought you'd understand the phrase 'go away'," he mumbled, still not looking up.

"Look, John, I didn't…" Sherlock hesitated, reluctant to admit he'd been wrong but realising it was the only way to get John back right now. "I didn't understand you'd get so upset. Usually you don't mind anything I do so…"

John shook his head. "It wasn't just that." He sighed, shoulders rising and falling. "Well, actually, it is. That's the problem. You don't think I mind when in fact I do."

Sherlock frowned. What was that supposed to mean? "John, if there's something I've done that has hurt you in some way, I apologise – "

John shook his head again. He raised his head, looking straight into Sherlock's grey eyes. He could almost see the question marks in them. "It's really not your fault, Sherlock. I've let you do that so I've only got myself to blame here."

"Blame? Yes, I can see you're doing that but why? John, I need you to come back home with me, I need your help with the case." He paused, using that cute expression he knew even John couldn't resist. "I need you."

John almost smiled. Almost. "Shut up. And no, I'm not coming back yet. I can't."

Sherlock waved his arm at the direction of the bed. "Can I sit down?"

John nodded, tensing just a bit when his flatmate stepped towards the bed. His hands were resting on his lap and they were completely steady. Sherlock sat on the bed, not too close to John but not too far away either. He turned to the other man. "I am not leaving until you tell me what's wrong. You're wasting my precious time, the time I should spend helping Lestrade. But I'm not leaving."

That was sweet, John thought, sweet in Sherlock's own way. He drew a deep breath. "Okay." He paused. "God, I feel so stupid."

"You _are_," Sherlock shrugged. "But it doesn't matter, remember?"

Right. That was reassuring. Sherlock was probably the least ideal person on the planet to have this conversation with. But it had to be done anyway, and John had never been one to run away from unpleasant tasks. "You said I don't mind anything," he said. "But I do, to be honest. I'm not your pet and I don't like it when you treat me like one."

Sherlock looked at him like he was a puzzle the detective needed to solve. "I'm '_taking you for granted_', that's the phrase they like to use, I believe?"

John bit his lip. "Yeah, I guess that's one way to put it. But I can't blame you, I really can't, because I've let you do that and haven't said anything and this whole thing is really very ridiculous and I'm sorry to bother you." He sighed and seemed to shrink a little.

Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to do. His mind flashed back and yes, John was right – in a way. He had taken him for granted but Sherlock had been so absolutely certain John didn't mind it. John himself had said he wouldn't change their lifestyle to anything so Sherlock had assumed it really _was_ all fine. John had hid his discontent well. He reached out and placed his hand cautiously on John's shoulder, ready to retreat in case John didn't want the contact. He could feel the muscles tense and then relax under his fingers and John looked at him, a small smile on his face.

"Thank you," John said quietly, still feeling fairly awkward but also relieved; he had finally said the words out loud and he could see that Sherlock was actually processing the new data, at least trying to understand.

"You know... After the war – " John looked anxious again and drew a shaky breath. "London is a battlefield but it's nothing compared to Afghanistan. I can't even..."

This was not good. If this day turned into a therapy meeting they would never get on with the investigation. Sherlock could feel the wasted seconds ticking by as he watched John who looked lost, drowning in his painful memories again. Sherlock stroked John's back, hoping that would provide the comfort John needed. To his surprise, it only seemed to make things worse. John's breathing got shakier and Sherlock could feel the doctor's body trembling slightly. Slowly, carefully, he wrapped his arms around John and gently pulled the man closer. His brain calculated this might be the right thing to do but he was still a bit worried John would protest this level of intimacy after what had happened in the morning. John's reactions, however, seemed to support his theory – the man sighed and, after some hesitation, rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock hugged John closer, feeling a bit out of place as he sat there, listening to John's breathing get steadier and the trembling calm down. How long was thing going to take? John was not overly sentimental so hopefully he would get himself together soon...

"John?" he said softly. The man immediately straightened himself up, clearing his throat.

"Yes, right. Sorry," John muttered. Sherlock released his grip of John and was surprised to notice he was almost reluctant to do that. The heat of John's body and the beating of his heart had felt quite nice.

A few seconds of awkward silence passed, then John spoke again. "So... You still haven't explained that... Thing you did this morning. That experiment thing. Do I want to know what it was about?"

Sherlock looked at John, trying to read the man in order to come up with the best explanation. He wasn't sure John would understand. He decided to go with something simple. John usually liked things simple. "I wanted to know what it's like to be close to you. What does touching you feel like. I wanted to explore it properly because I wasn't sure."

"Uh... What?" John looked blank – not simple enough, it would seem. "But you have, um, touched me before. Hundreds of times."

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, but it needed further investigation. I wasn't sure, it was confusing. Because usually I don't like touching people – unless they're dead – but I don't feel the same way with you."

"Right," John said, looking very uncomfortable. "And?"

"Well, the hypothesis was quite correct. I don't mind being close to you."

"That's a relief," John mumbled.

"I just don't know why." There was something in Sherlock's eyes that made John shiver. "Anyway," the detective's whole appearance seemed to brighten up, "Are you ready to come home with me? We've got work to do."

John raised an eyebrow. "What did I just say about you bossing me around?"

Sherlock jumped to his feet, tugging John's arms and pulling the other man up, too. "Please?"

* * *

**A/N:** Reviews make me abandon all the stuff I _should _be doing and write this faster... Could everyone pick one thing they liked and one they didn't like about this chapter, please? That'd help me a lot, y'know.


	5. Home

**A/N:** Okay, here's the fact: I have absolutely no free time at the moment and this really is everything I've written during the past week or so. It's very short and I'm afraid it's not very good - apologies - but I wanted to post this now as I'm not sure when I'll have the next opportunity to waste my time on fan fiction...

* * *

Sherlock took John's hand and tugged the man out of the hotel room, down the stairs and into the lobby. The poor receptionist girl looked at them with disapproval and disappointment flickering over her features as the two man approached, hand in hand. Sherlock whipped out his wallet and dumped his credit card on the desk along with the key of John's room. John stepped forward, simultaneously shaking his hand free from Sherlock's.

"No, Sherlock, come on. I'm not going to let you pay – "

Sherlock pressed his index finger on John's lips like it was a perfectly normal way to shut up your flatmate. John fell silent (immediately) and the receptionist actually let out a small squeal and dropped the bill she'd been about to handle to Sherlock. The detective looked at them both with an expression of scorn and remote surprise.

John's brain seemed to freeze when Sherlock's cold finger touched his lips and it took him a longish while to recover from the unexpected and very distracting contact. Practically _everyone_ in the lobby seemed to stare at them and Sherlock just carried on as if nothing had happened, paying the bill when the receptionist finally managed to pick it up from the floor and place it on the desk. Her face was bright pink and she glared at Sherlock – John didn't want to know what the detective had said or done in order to get his room number from the girl.

The two men got out of the hotel and walked down the street. Sherlock was looking for a taxi, John was trying to reattain his mental balance. After a minute, Sherlock succeeded, taking John's hand again and pulling him onto the back seat of a cab, which did little to help the good doctor clear up his thoughts.

In the taxi, John could finally work up the courage to say something. He drew a deep breath; Sherlock's eyes immediately fixed on his face, taking in everything there was to observe. "You do know that your hand, on my mouth is... Is not an appropriate way to tell me to shut up?"

Sherlock smiled. John wanted to point out that was not an appropriate way to react to what he'd just said, but he decided it was safer not to open his mouth again.  
"Saying 'shut up' is quite rude, isn't it?" Sherlock queried. "And you wanted me to treat you better."

John blinked. "Yes. Uh, that's right." Maybe it was too much to expect a high-functioning sociopath would understand exactly why it wasn't okay to act like that.

"Everything's fine, then?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow. John nodded weakly, not really wanting to go on about the subject. He rested his head against the cold window and stared out. Sherlock didn't say anything until the taxi pulled up in front of their flat.

* * *

John sat down with a deep sigh. His chair was cosy and comfortable – now that he had removed the dead rat – and it was nice to sit there again, surrounded by the familiar smells and sounds of 221B Baker Street. Things seemed to be back to normal... Except that they weren't. Sherlock was sitting in his own chair, opposite John, with a thoughtful look on his face, and there was an uncomfortable silence hanging in the room. John cleared his throat.

"So, would you like to give me some updates about the case? What exactly is going on?" he asked, trying to sound as interested as possible.

Sherlock face brightened and he rubbed his hands together. "I can't tell you much right now, as there are several things that need to be confirmed," he said. John nodded. Sherlock hated being wrong so he always checked and double-checked every detail before saying anything. "However, there are some solid facts you might have missed. We have this car A that was driven by a woman called Catherine. Linda – who's now gone missing along with Peter and Marie – was in the backseat. It was their car that crashed into the other one."

John looked confused. "So... We know who did it, then? That Catherine?"

"Ah, yes but no." Sherlock smiled. "There's absolutely no connection between Catherine and anyone in car B."

"You're sure?"

"Of course I am. Besides, this would've been far too simple if she'd been the killer." Sherlock jumped to his feet and started pacing around the room, almost purring in satisfaction. "That would've been boring."

"But... She _did_ kill that woman in the other car. And the others were just damn lucky to survive," John tried.

Sherlock nodded. "That's where it gets interesting. Who is the murderer?" He turned to John. "Who do you suspect?"

"Don't ask that, Sherlock. I don't – I have absolutely no idea."

"Another question, then," Sherlock pressed, "Who was the target?"

John shrugged. "You're the genius, not me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, strode across the room and placed himself on the armrest of John's chair. John frowned at him and edged away as much as he could. "You have your own chair, right there, you know."

Sherlock looked at the other chair, shook his head and turned back to John. "Yes, but as I've already said, I like being close to you. Also, I don't want you to be all quiet and apathetic." He looked at John, both hands on the other man's shoulders, turning the doctor to face him. "I don't like it. I need your help, John. Will you help me?"

* * *

**A/N:** Please review, I'll try to write more as soon as possible (unless you all tell me not to).


	6. Solutions

**A/N:** It's been a while, sorry... Exam week and a massive writer's block hit me all at once but now I'm back. Hope you like this chapter :)

* * *

The next morning, John stood in front of a familiar looking house in South Kensington. He didn't really know what he was doing there – he should have been at work – or why he'd let Sherlock get his way once again. The conversation had been something like this:

Sherlock: I need you to go talk to Peter's husband again.  
John: Oh God, please. No. Just... No. I don't want to go through their family pictures again.  
Sherlock: You can either go there or to Linda's place.  
John: Oh, good, can I take the latter? Please?  
Sherlock: Sure, but that visit includes a break-in. I still don't have a warrant...

So John had taken a taxi to Kensington. Slowly, he walked to the door and knocked. Soft footsteps approached and the door swung open. Simon looked at John blankly for a moment, then recognition flashed in his eyes and he offered the doctor a weak smile.

"Oh, Dr. Watson. Come in, come in."

John obeyed, bracing himself for hours of mourning and reminiscing as he followed Simon down the hallway. He wanted very bad to find that damn Peter guy – also because he cared about human lives in general, but mainly just to put an end to these awkward meetings with the man's whiny lover.

They sat in the light and spacious living room, side by side on a very expensive looking sofa. It didn't take a Sherlock Holmes to see that Simon was absolutely devastated and every day that passed without any information about his husband was really killing the man inside. John felt genuinely sorry for him as he watched the man's pale, tired face.

"Any news?" Simon asked, with no hope in his voice. John shook his head.

"No, sorry. But we're working on it. There's something I need to check, if that's okay with you..."

Simon shrugged. "Yeah. Of course."

"I'm very sorry to bother you. This must be difficult for you," John said softly. Simon managed a small smile.

"It's okay. What do you need?"

John checked his mobile phone. "Um... The GPS from Peter's car, all the maps in the house and any of his diaries or calendars or stuff like that."

Simon got up. "The police already took his journal but I'll see if there's anything else you might want in his study..." He wandered out of the room and John followed him. Together, they went through Peter's desk and his bookshelf and John picked everything that seemed important. A big calendar from his desk – the police had already gone through it but Sherlock had asked for it anyway – and two maps of London. Simon wasn't helping much, as he stopped regularly to sigh heavily and stare out of the window with an expression which spoke of a broken heart more clearly than anything. John tried to focus on working. He picked a bunch of papers at random, putting them to his bag with the rest of the stuff he'd gathered, just in case.

When they had finished with the study, Simon wandered around the house for a while and finally found the GPS John had asked for. It was a bit scratched, probably in the accident, but otherwise intact. Simon said he hadn't touched it after the police had returned it to him, along with other property from the car.

"Well," John said, putting the device in his bag, "I guess that's all. Thank you very much."

Simon walked to the front door with him. "If there's anything I can do to help with... With the investigation... Just let me know," he said quietly, opening the door for John.

The doctor stepped out, patting Simon's shoulder as he walked past him. "We will. Thank you for your help."

He turned to walk away when he heard Simon's broken voice behind him.

"I miss him. Please, please find him. I..." Simon had seemed a bit fake before; keeping his facade up, not showing how broken apart he actually was. Now there was nothing but sincere pain in his voice.

John bit his lip, turned his head and gave Simon what he hoped was an encouraging smile. "We'll do our absolute best."

As soon as the door closed, John called Sherlock. The man didn't pick up. John typed a message and hit send.

_This was the last time I come here. That man is bloody depressing. Got what you wanted, I'll go home now.  
J_

In the taxi, John felt strangely low. He tried to push Simon's last words and the man's distressed expression out of his head but somehow it wasn't that easy. John hadn't been in a situation like that – losing someone you loved so deeply, and not knowing whether the person was alive or not – so he couldn't really know what it felt like. In Afghanistan, fellow soldiers had died and gone missing but it'd been different. As horrible as it sounded, one kind of got used to it after a while.

But what if something happened to Sherlock? The detective was without a doubt the most important person in John's life and, true enough, he was in constant danger. What if Sherlock just suddenly disappeared? The police would be powerless, trying their best but getting nowhere. Baker Street would be empty and quiet, with no one playing the violin or blowing up beer cans. John knew he wouldn't react like Simon. He wouldn't sit around and drown in the sorrow; he'd do anything, everything, to get Sherlock back. And he wouldn't stop. Ever.

John frowned. It was a strange feeling, this sudden awareness that he really would do anything for Sherlock. It was followed by an urge to see Sherlock immediately to check the man was safe, and the irrational fear that something would happen to him. As he sat there in the taxi, watching the streets pass by, he felt a new kind of bond between him and the madman he'd got mixed up with. John Watson's life would be nothing without Sherlock Holmes. The thought was quite reassuring, in a way. He rested his head against the cold window and wondered what his flatmate was up to.

* * *

Sherlock spent most of his day dashing around the city, muttering to himself and ignoring the strange looks he received from fellow human beings. The pieces of this puzzle were finally beginning to form a picture – a terribly simple picture – and there were only a couple of details left to be sorted out before he could prove he'd once again been smarter than the whole Scotland Yard. He grinned to himself as he walked into a big, modern office building and talked his way to the manager of the company.

* * *

Sherlock came home around five and spread all the evidence they'd gathered on the table in their living room. John sat down opposite him, opening his laptop. This was how they usually spent their evenings when Sherlock was working – John sat quietly somewhere nearby, not disturbing his flatmate but ready to help if help was needed. He started typing a blog entry but didn't quite know what to write. "_Ran away from Sherlock and I'm not even sure why; came back some hours later when he broke into my hotel room. Now we're chasing the murderer again_." That didn't sound like something his therapist wanted to read... John sighed and looked up from the screen. Sherlock was running his fingers on a huge map he'd spread out across the table. John got sidetracked, staring at those long fingers which had been resting on his lips the day before. It'd been typical behaviour for Sherlock, of course, everything abnormal was normal for him, but still... The doctor shook his head and concentrated on Medical News Today.

They sat in silence for almost an hour. Suddenly, Sherlock jumped to his feet, holding a piece of paper triumphantly in his hands. "John."

"Yes?"

"Call Lestrade."

John looked at him. "Your phone is on that table right under your nose."

"I know exactly where my phone is, John. Take it and call the Inspector."

John huffed, reaching for the mobile phone and pressing the buttons. "I'm only doing this because someone has to care about the human lives that are at stake," he mumbled. "Oh, hi Lestrade. No, everything's fine, Sherlock asked me to call..." He looked at Sherlock, eyebrows raised in query. "What is it? Do you want to talk to Lestrade?"

Sherlock shook his head, pushing the piece of paper across the table. "Just give him that address and tell him to send everyone there as soon as possible." A huge smile spread abruptly across his pale face. "We've solved it."

* * *

Five minutes later they were in a cab on their way to Southwark.

"So you... We're actually going after the murderer now?" John asked, feeling a bit – okay, _very_ – confused.

Sherlock nodded, long fingers tapping impatiently the edge of the seat. John knew the man's brain was racing at a thousand miles per hour and tried to keep his curiosity down. They sat in silence for almost five minutes and then John had enough.

"I know you don't like answering my questions yet but where exactly are we going? How did you solve this? Who is the murderer?" He remembered Simon's tortured face. "Are there any chances that the kidnapped people are still alive?"

Sherlock had the "obviously" look on his face as he opened his mouth to speak... "It was so obvious, John." There it was. John decided he knew his flatmate far too well. "Such an incredibly simple case; really smart criminals are difficult to find nowadays. It would've solved this in one day if..." he looked at John with a sudden wave of frustration sweeping over his features, "If there hadn't been other distractions."

John sank into the seat. "You mean me running away. Look, I'm very, very sorry about that – "

Sherlock leaned closer and touched John's lips with his fingers again, but quickly moved his hand to the side of John's face when the other man was about to protest. "It wasn't that, John," he said, eyes roaming over the doctor's face as if he was trying to read something written in a language he didn't understand. "It wasn't the running away that distracted me. Your presence does. You distract me from my work. It's like I've had two cases going on simultaneously and... And you're far more interesting than a car crash."

John blinked. The hand cupping his face was nothing short of distracting; long fingers that were gently pushing into his hair, the soft thumb stroking his temple. He could feel Sherlock's breath on his face, could see the streetlights flickering in the detective's eyes and suddenly he felt like a teenager again. It was really most distracting. "I... I don't think I understand," he managed.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, which brought some normality to the utterly strange situation. "I want to investigate you, John. Murders are nice and no matter how distasteful Sergeant Donovan finds it, I do get off on them. But I think I could also get off on you." He pulled away as suddenly as he had leaned closer, and gave John a look the doctor would have described as "puppy eyes" if his brain hadn't turned itself off. "If you let me," Sherlock added, widening his eyes at John.

"I, um... I, Sherlock – "

"Not good?" Sherlock asked, actually looking genuinely worried.

"No – I mean, it's fine, I guess. It's all fine, I just... I thought you weren't interested in people, in general. I thought I was an idiot, just like Anderson or anyone."

Sherlock shivered, this time bringing both hands up to John's face. "Don't _ever_ compare yourself to Anderson or 'anyone'. You're not like anyone else." He sounded almost angry and John tried to pull back, not at all comfortable with the situation. Sherlock glanced quickly out of the cab window, letting out a displeased grunt. "We're almost there."

"Oh, okay, good," John said, straightening himself up a bit and feeling more than relieved. The case would capture Sherlock's attention again; maybe they could just forget about this awkward taxi ride. A couple of dead bodies and a murderer at large would actually be quite nice right now...

Sherlock's nose was suddenly almost touching his. John jumped. "Sherlock – "

The madman's voice was low and hypnotic, his eyes staring challengingly at John. "I want to try something before we go," he whispered. "Please, John. I need to know."

The taxi turned from a corner, slowed down and stopped. Sherlock's hands were holding John's face and the army doctor felt more nervous than he'd done in ages. "Alright," he muttered. "What is it?"

Sherlock's lips brushed his for a split second, too quickly for John's brain to even register the contact. Then the detective dumped some cash to the driver and slipped out, leaving John paralysed in the backseat. _Did he just kiss me or do I need to start seeing my therapist again_, John wondered as he crawled awkwardly out of the taxi. Sherlock was standing on the pavement, and his face was blank again, showing none of the emotions he'd seemed to have just a few seconds ago. John began to question his own mental health, and yet he could still taste Sherlock on his lips.

He glanced around – they were on a deserted street, lined with bleak, run-down houses. It was already quite late and the streetlights cast their dim, orange glow on the landscape. When the taxi had driven away, the street fell eerily silent. The place felt isolated; the sounds of the big city, sounds of life, were hardly audible here.

"I think you should stay here, John," Sherlock said as the doctor approached. "Wait for the police to arrive – they should be here in a minute – and tell them I went in."

"What?"

Sherlock quirked a brow at him. "I thought my instructions were pretty clear."

"No," John shook his head. "I have a couple of questions. One, you just kissed me – and I know you for sure that you did so don't try to tell me that didn't happen – what the hell was that about? And two, I know nothing of this thing because you haven't told me anything but there's no way I'm going to let you go alone, why did you even think I would?"

Sherlock stepped closer, placing his hands on John's shoulders. He smiled. "One, I did kiss you, yes. There's one less thing to distract me now. And two," the smile disappeared, "this could be dangerous, really dangerous this time, so one of us has to stay here to tell the police what's going on."

John decided to ignore the kissing thing for now; Sherlock had slipped into his detective mood so it was no use trying to talk about anything else but the case. "Either I go in or we both go," he insisted. "I will not stay here and let you risk your life. One day you're going to get killed 'cause you want to prove you're smart, and I don't want today to be that day."

Sherlock huffed. "_There are lives at stake_, John. We're only wasting their time by arguing."

"You're right," John nodded, stepping towards one of the houses. "It's this one, isn't it? Let's go in."

* * *

**A/N:** Just FYI, this fic was originally going to be only 5 chapters long. This is chapter number 6 so I guess something went wrong...


	7. Capture

**A/N: **This one's a bit short and it took me ages to finish it (sorry!) but oh well... A massive thank you to ds9jullian for proofreading this :)

* * *

Sherlock and John approached the house, both feeling for their guns, tense and alert.

"Could you brief me a bit?" John whispered as they reached the door. "What will we find inside?"

Sherlock pushed a lock pick between the door and the cracking frame. "You won't be finding anything, you'll stay right here and wait for Lestrade."

"I won't, so if you care about my safety at all you'll tell me what to expect."

Sherlock sighed, put the lock pick back to his pocket and looked at John. "You'll stay behind me to protect our back. I'll take care of everything else. There's no time to explain now."

He opened the door carefully and they slipped in. The inside of the house was surprisingly well-kept, considering the rotten front of the house. The two men stood in a clean, narrow hall with no doors, only two staircases, one leading into the basement and the other to the second floor. The only source of light was a slightly dirty window which didn't help much but was enough for them to come to the conclusion there was nothing to see here. Sherlock knelt on the wooden floor and pressed his ear against it. John had pulled out his gun and stared into the darkness. His hands were completely steady as they held the pistol.

Sherlock got up silently, like a prowling cat – or more like a leopard in a long, black coat – and pointed downstairs. John nodded and they sneaked towards the stairs, slowly and silently. Voices became audible as they descended, one stair by one, into the darkness. High-pitched, angry shouting; a woman. When they reached the door at the bottom of the stairs, they could make out hysterical sobbing and a man's low voice that said something and suddenly turned into a shocked yell. A gunshot rang out. Sherlock kicked the door open.

* * *

Detective Inspector Lestrade was nervous. He _did_ trust Sherlock Holmes – to a certain extent – but when his sidekick-assistant-flatmate had called, saying Sherlock had solved the case and telling Lestrade to bring "everyone" to a random address in southern London, he'd had to admit he wasn't very sure what to do. Not following the madman's orders would've been pure stupidity; the chances were he was right, he was usually right about everything. But there was always the risk; what if he was wrong, or – more likely – what if he wasn't serious? One could never be sure when one was forced to work with Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade sighed, leaned back against the seat of the police car and prayed they'd actually find something worth finding when they arrived.

Four police cars stopped on a deserted street and Lestrade jumped out of one of them, looking around. There were no signs of Sherlock or John and the DI hoped that he'd, for once, be lucky enough to get to the crime scene without Sherlock interrupting him.

"Number 14," he said, noticing the rusty numbers above one of the doors. "It's this one, lads."

A group of well-trained police officers gathered in front of the door, ready to go in. One of them bent down to take a closer look at the lock. "Sir," he started, when a quiet pop from the house made them all freeze. Sherlock could mock them all he wanted but they were qualified enough to know that was a gunshot, followed by a crash and two louder shots. Scotland Yard rushed in.

* * *

John sprinted across the room to a small, dark-haired woman he suddenly recognised as Marie. He'd seen pictures of her in the case file but in the pictures she hadn't been tied to a chair and she hadn't had a bullet wound in the middle of her chest. Now blood was slowly soaking through her white shirt and her face was almost as white, and distorted by pain. The wound was deadly, too close to her heart.

"Everything's fine," John murmured soothingly, stroking her hair off her face. He glanced quickly at the man – Peter apparently – who was tied to a chair next to her. He seemed to be uninjured, apart from a couple of bruises and a bleeding nose, but his breathing was quick and shallow and sweat was rolling down his face despite the low temperature. "Breathe," John said firmly, turning back to Marie and trying to remove the ropes that tied her trembling body to the seat.

Sherlock was standing on the opposite side of the room, looking at the blonde woman lying on the floor with cold satisfaction. She was sobbing; angrily and in pain, her right hand and left leg bleeding. John's shot had been better, Sherlock had to admit, it'd brushed the back of her hand enough to make her drop the gun but not shattering the whole limb. The leg, which Sherlock had shot – knowing she wouldn't shoot anymore but wanting to make her harmless – looked much worse. Sherlock knew one person who'd be very displeased with the use of excessive force... He heard steps over Linda's sobbing and the first policemen appeared in the doorway, guns drawn, shouting orders.

"Calm down, gentlemen. Everything's in control," Sherlock smirked.

* * *

Lestrade looked at least twenty years older than he really was as he rubbed his hands over his face and stared at the chaos around him. Blood, screaming and shock blankets – all of which could've been avoided if Sherlock hadn't gone off on his own again. The consulting detective was standing in a corner, talking quietly to John. He'd refused to explain anything to anyone else but informing John seemed to be number one on Sherlock's list of priorities. The consulting detective gestured wildly, John looked slightly horrified as he listened.

"Sir?" It was Donovan; she touched Lestrade's elbow to get the man's attention. "They're taking all three victims to the hospital now. It might be too late for that girl, though..." Her eyes flicked over Marie who was lying awfully still on the stretcher. Lestrade nodded absent-mindedly.

"Tell them to keep their eye on that blonde woman. She isn't running anywhere, not with that leg, but my career's over if she does." With a nod, Sally left, and Lestrade walked over to Sherlock and John.

"...So she took them here, quite obviously – " Sherlock fell silent when he noticed the DI approaching. "Hello, Lestrade."

Lestrade shot a tired glare at him. "I'm going to be in trouble because of this," he sighed. "You could've waited for us, you know. You _should_ have. Shooting that Linda – both of you shooting her for God's sake – was totally unnecessary. And they'll put the blame on me because technically speaking you two shouldn't even be here."

Sherlock shrugged. "She has killed two people. Her well-being wasn't really our first priority."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, "Three people?"

"That woman she shot now will die before she gets to the hospital," John said curtly. "That makes it three."

"I still don't understand – " Lestrade tried.

"Of course you don't," Sherlock huffed, taking John's arm and leading the man towards the stairs. "We'll get some fresh air if you don't mind, Inspector. John doesn't look too well."

"What? I'm perfectly well. Seriously, Sherlock..."

Lestrade watched as the two climbed the stairs, arms entwined. He drew a deep breath and concentrated on his work.

* * *

**A/N:** You know I love reviews.


	8. Human

**A/N:** You asked for a quick update so here it is... The next one may take a bit longer again - crazy times ahead -_-

* * *

Sherlock and John stood in the doorway, getting annoyed looks and '_we're trying to work here_'s from the police officers dashing in and out of the house. Sherlock felt slightly upset but mostly content with how things had gone. That soon-to-be dead woman was of course an unfortunate loss and Lestrade had obviously taken it quite seriously but without Sherlock – and John, sure enough – the case would've remained a total mystery so actually they deserved a thank you from the DI. Sherlock turned his head to examine his colleague. John looked pale and exhausted, more so than Sherlock would have expected. The flashing, blue lights of the police cars only added to his almost ghost-like appearance.

"Everything alright?" Sherlock asked, suddenly remembering all those times John had worried about him and also realising he had never paid much attention to John's well-being. That was probably the reason John looked a bit surprised as he answered, "Yes, yes I'm fine. Just very, very tired and starving to death."

"Food, then?" Sherlock suggested, "I know a nice Italian place that's quite near – or would you prefer Indian?"

"Italian sounds good", nodded John, his face suddenly growing concerned. "Are you sure we can leave now? I mean, don't you want to stay a bit longer to show off to Lestrade, tell us how everything was _obvious_ and stuff? You haven't even asked Anderson about his marriage. I don't want us to leave too early just because I'm getting tired."

"We can do all that tomorrow." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and then placed the hand on John's lower back, guiding the man away from the house. "Besides, I might want to eat something too... We're leaving," he announced to a young police officer standing next to the plastic DO NOT CROSS tape which surrounded the area. "I'll meet Lestrade in his office, tomorrow morning at – " Sherlock's eyes flicked to John's face for a moment, "Ten thirty. A bit later, if we're very tired."  
With that, he left the officer who muttered a weak "I don't know if I can arrange that" after them.

The restaurant wasn't far away but the little walk seemed to drain the remains of John's energy. Sherlock got them a table, offered John a chair and watched as the man collapsed to it. A waitress wandered to their table, ignoring John and quite obviously trying to dazzle Sherlock with her huge, white smile. Someone might have found that attractive. Sherlock looked at her, wrinkled his nose a very tiny bit – just enough to make the waitress feel stupid and worthless – and touched John's hand that was resting on the table.

"What do you want?"

John's head snapped up in a way that suggested he'd just been about to fall asleep. "Um, I... Just, anything."

Sherlock looked at the menu and picked two dishes at random, sending the slightly bitter waitress away.

"John?" he asked softly, taking the other man's hand.

John used his free hand to rub his face. "Yes?" His sleepy gaze wandered to his other hand, resting on the table, with Sherlock's palm covering it. He seemed to wake up a bit. "Wait a minute – why are you holding my hand?"

Sherlock grinned. "Just keeping you awake. You need to eat and then we can go home." He tilted his head to the side. "It might have been a better idea to go straight home. I'm sorry to keep you awake."

John's eyebrows rose until they almost touched his hairline. "You're sorry? Seriously, Sherlock, what's going on? Did you hit your head or something?"

Sherlock shook his head with a well-practised look of hurt on his face. "No. I just care about you. Why do you think I suffer from a head injury if I show signs of caring and affection?"

"We're talking about you," John shrugged, smiling sleepily. "You don't do caring. Or affection."

The hurt on Sherlock's face deepened, almost seeming real this time. His long fingers stroked the back of John's hand. "But I _do_ care about you."

"Yeah, okay," John yawned, "This is awkward anyway." He tried to pull his hand away but Sherlock tightened his grip and John gave up, floating back to half-sleep until the food arrived.

They ate in silence. The food was delicious – of course it was, Sherlock always wanted the best – but John was too tired to really pay attention to it. Sherlock didn't concentrate on his meal either; part of his mind was still working on the case and preparing a cocky presentation for Scotland Yard and the rest of it was observing John. John, who looked weary and had bloody fingerprints on his cheek – must've been someone else's blood, so no need to worry. John, who looked strangely adorable and whom Sherlock suddenly felt very protective of. The detective shook his head. _Adorable_ – John clearly wasn't the only one here who needed sleep. They finished their plates without saying a word.

* * *

John was glad to get into the taxi. He yawned and sank into the soft seat; it would take at least twenty minutes to get home and it was definitely time to get some sleep...

Sherlock watched as John slid into unconsciousness. The doctor breathed steadily, chest rising and falling, eyelids fluttering slightly as he floated deeper into the dream. John had managed so well, even though he must've been very tired. Sherlock regretted not letting the man sleep enough; it'd been selfish and selfishness was something that didn't usually bother him but this time it did. Maybe it was because of John's massive unselfishness... Sherlock decided to make this up to John somehow.

The taxi turned abruptly in a corner and John's head fell to the side. The man stirred and murmured quietly but didn't wake up. His position looked uncomfortable. Sherlock edged closer, wrapping his arm around John and gently pulling the sleeping man closer so that John's head was resting safely against his shoulder. Better. John took a deep, sleepy breath and relaxed against him.

The taxi pulled up in front of 221B way too soon. Sherlock's arm, squished between John's back and the back rest of the seat, was numb, John's weight having stopped the blood from circulating; but he didn't want to get out of the taxi. It would be better if John could sleep without being interrupted. And it was actually quite nice to sit there, knowing that another case was solved, and knowing that John wasn't going anywhere. Ever. Sighing heavily, he touched John's cheek.

"John," he murmured. "We're here."

John stirred, burying his face against Sherlock's shoulder and mumbling something. Sherlock felt strange, but not in a bad way, as he paid the driver and dragged the half-conscious doctor out of the car and to the door. It wasn't an easy task, getting the keys out of your pocket and opening the lock with one hand, while trying to keep your extremely sleepy flatmate on his feet with the other hand. But Sherlock, being Sherlock, managed, and soon the two were safely inside the house.

"Stairs, John," Sherlock warned and John seemed to wake up properly enough to avoid stumbling and breaking his neck while climbing upstairs to their flat. Another set of stairs would've been too much, though, so Sherlock simply guided John to his own bedroom and straight to the bed. John sighed happily and fell into unconsciousness as soon as his head touched the pillow. Sherlock stood next to the bed for some time, not knowing what to do. Slowly, he bent down and took off John's shoes and socks, dropping them to the floor. John's jacket didn't look like the most ideal pyjama top so he decided to take it off, too. He opened the zip and carefully slid the jacket down from John's shoulders. It took some serious manoeuvring, but he managed to free John's arms from the sleeves and tug the jacket from under John's back. John stirred but continued sleeping. Sherlock exhaled – he hadn't noticed he'd actually been holding his breath – and took off his own coat. His hands stopped on the top button of his shirt when he suddenly realised something.

John was sleeping in his bed. That was disturbing enough, but it wasn't all – if John was sleeping in Sherlock's bed, where would Sherlock go? The world's only consulting detective frowned. His bed was big enough for them both and he really liked sleeping in it, rather than borrowing John's or sleeping on the sofa. But John was sleeping in it now. And he wasn't sure if he wanted to join John... Well, alright, he _did_ want to, strangely enough; it would be nice to fall asleep and wake up next to John. But he wasn't sure if John would like it, which made things much more complicated.

He stood there, undecidedly, staring at John who was curled up on top of the covers, arm spread out across the bed. Sherlock felt a wave of exhaustion; the adrenaline, the excitement, were fading away now that the case was solved and he just wanted to get some sleep. So he stripped his clothes off, put on his pyjamas and crawled into the bed, gently lifting John's arm that was resting on the bed and slipping under it. He tugged the blanket over them both and let John's comforting presence put him to sleep.

* * *

John woke up with a strange feeling that something was wrong. He lay on his back, eyes closed, listening. He was at home; the place smelled of Baker Street and he could hear the familiar noises of an early morning from the street. Yet something wasn't quite right. This wasn't his bed, to begin with, not his bedroom, and he could hear someone breathing steadily next to him, and some strange tapping noise... John's eyes flicked open. Sherlock's room, Sherlock's bed, Sherlock lying next to him on the bed and typing a text message. John jumped.

"What the damn hell am I doing in your bed?"

Sherlock smiled, stretching himself like a big, skinny and extremely happy cat. "You _were_ sleeping but now you're sitting on it and shouting at me."

"Yes, that's bloody funny." John tried very hard to remember what had brought him here last night and was very displeased to realise his last memories were from the taxi. He'd fallen asleep, apparently, and after that... Pretty much nothing. Waking up in Sherlock's bed was definitely 'a bit not good'.

Sherlock sent the text he'd been typing, dropped the phone on the bedside table and got up – John was very grateful to notice that the man was at least wearing his pyjamas. They were both dressed. Good sign, wasn't it?

Sherlock turned to look at him with a wide smile on his face. "We have to go soon, Lestrade's waiting. There's still blood on your face, you might want to wash that off before we leave. Ten minutes."

John growled, wondering how much randomness he could take before suffering a mental breakdown. And it was only 9 o'clock in the morning...

* * *

**A/N:** I found a random Valentine's Day fic from my laptop. To publish or not to publish..?


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